The Unexpected Pirate
by Besina
Summary: John finds himself in an awkward position while having to explain certain things to Sherlock. fluffy, cracky, porny, fun


John shifted in his sleep. Something wasn't quite right. He readjusted his arms back underneath his pillow and buried his head face down in it. He usually drifted off quite quickly again once he'd adjusted his position, but his sleep-addled brain, for once, wasn't going to let him. It was silently nagging him to wake up just a little bit more; something was off. It wasn't the sudden startling that you'd get say, if the house were on fire, but it wasn't going to just let him drift back off into dreamland without inspecting things to make sure everything was alright.

John's conscious mind idly drifted to the surface, doing a self-inventory: toes? check. Legs? check. Bum? check. Wait...

"Sherlock?" he asked groggily, "Why is there a cock in my arse?"

"Oh, sorry. I woke you, did I?"

"You could say that." John thought for a moment. "Moreover, Sherlock, why is it your cock, and why are you in my bed?" John's completely zen-like take on the activities currently happening had less to do with previous experience in being buggered by his flatmate (of which he had none), and more to do with a) his not quite awake, this-could-be-a-dream, state and b) plenty of experience dealing with an insane flatmate.

"Bit not good?" inquired Sherlock, apparently not at all aware that buggering your flatmate while they sleep might be on the list of no-no's in social etiquette. Despite their ongoing conversation and his recent query, Sherlock hadn't quite stopped moving.

John moaned, then drew one of his hands up from beneath the pillow and ran it down over his face. How do you explain to your flatmate that they shouldn't be fucking you, while they are indeed, fucking you?

"Bit more than a bit not good, Sherlock. Seriously, could you stop for a minute and explain how this came about?"

Sherlock stilled but just lay down across John's back, not removing himself. Apparently discussion did nothing to quell his ardor as he remained quite stiff for the duration.

Sherlock's explanation came, as his position required, as warm air drifting over the back of John's ear when he settled down to explain things to poor, slow-on-the-uptake, but loveable, John. He wiggled his hips a bit as he settled in. John moaned fretfully into his pillow, saying "Oh god, Sherlock, please..." in a rather irritated voice.

Sherlock didn't quite understand his flatmate's agitation, he thought it felt wonderful. He decided John was just probably a grumpy waker.

"Well, for starters, John, we're not in your bed. You're in mine."

"What?"

"I was resting, as you frequently say I need to do; not sleeping, but lying down, doing some mental calculations and you appeared in my doorway, quite naked and with an impressive hard-on. You seemed to be doing some sleepwalking. I've seen you do it before, but you usually just invade the refridgerator and go back to bed, never naked and aroused. You tumbled into my bed, snagged all the covers and fell asleep cuddling my best pillow.

"As this was quite a novel experience and more interesting than the calculations, I put those on pause and thought I might examine it further. I found you to be very deeply asleep indeed and have started a graph, as you see over there, to track your sleep cycles. Since you were so far under, it looked like the perfect time to inspect you from tip to toe, as you never allow me to do when we're awake, for some reason, probably because you deem it a waste of time..."

"Not a waste of time, Sherlock," John pointed out, "an invasion of privacy."

Sherlock continued as if he hadn't heard him. He probably hadn't. "As you were asleep, and quite pliable, I figured I wouldn't be wasting any of your valuable time in cataloging you and you seemed amenable. I have the notebook over here as well, if you'd like a look."

He was laying here, his flatmate's cock still rutted up his arse, having what might pass as a rational conversation. John's head flopped back down on his pillow. How did his life ever get so strange? Ah, yes, Mike. He'd seriously have to thank Mike for this sometime...

"I got an extensive look at the exit wound on your shoulder, a general inventory of all your scars and scratches and annotated what I could from cause, time, treatment, and where appropriate, perpetrator. You may have to fill in some of the gaps later. You got rather grumpy when I rolled you onto your back, so those notes were made quickly in between your efforts to roll back onto your stomach."

"Sherlock," John interrupted, "Scientific inquiry aside, how exactly, save for the sleepwalking, did we come to have your cock plundering my arse? I didn't think you did sex, and you know I'm straight." John hadn't been completely sure about that statement ever since he moved in with Sherlock, but he'd never let it slip. But of course Sherlock would have figured it out, wouldn't he? Probably since the first offer of the phone. It still wasn't an invitation to initiate him to anal sex while he was sleeping. That skipped an awful lot of checks and balances.

Sherlock again shifted to make himself comfortable, the feeling in John's arse something that he was trying desperately to ignore. One thing he could tell is that he had certainly been ready for it, or very well prepped by one amorous detective. He leaned over John's other ear to continue his explanation, giving a small thrust of his hips as he did so.

"Sherlock!"

"Sorry. Too tempting. Where were we?" A moment ticked by before he remembered, "Ah yes! Well, sex isn't usually something I indulge in, mostly because I don't have the time, or a partner I could possibly see myself with. Most people are idiots and completely uninteresting, as you know. You are none of these."

John wasn't sure if he should feel flattered or violated. He settled on a mixture of both.

"I find you fascinating, and as my explorations continued, I seemed to be having a physical response to you. Quite unusual for me. I did inform you of it and asked if you would mind further exploration. Your lack of objection seemed to indicate approval."

"Sherlock, just because someone doesn't say 'No, you may not play arse-pirate while I'm sleeping!', while they are in fact,_ asleep_, does not equal consent!"

"I don't see why not. The question was posed, and not refuted. Beside which, it's the same as Mrs. Hudson's paper."

"Dear god, don't tell me this is in the papers," groaned John forlornly.

"No," corrected Sherlock, a bit of a crease on his forehead at John's lack of ability to keep up, "last week, when you snagged Mrs. Hudson's paper and I quizzed you about the validity of such an action, you responded that you just wanted to read a bit of it and would return it before she ever knew it was gone. Therefore, an action taken without the first party being aware of it, so long as it is completed or remedied before the first party _becomes_ aware of it, is not something to be alarmed about.

"You are my moral compass, John, I do frequently look to you for cues. Hence my most grievous mistake was in getting enthusiastic enough to wake you, for which I have already apologised."

There was silence for a moment as John drank in all the repercussions of Sherlock interpreting his behavior and extrapolating appropriate interactions from them. The outcomes were decidedly scary.

"I see you're using the same logic you do when 'we' decide things, even though I'm not even in the flat at the time."

"Works perfectly in those instances."

John twisted a bit to look back over his shoulder at Sherlock, and instantly regretted it. He hated to admit it, but Sherlock in him actually felt rather good, in a very strange, new way. He cleared his throat immediately to stifle the groan that wanted to surface, but it was almost certain Sherlock had felt him respond. "So, I was handy, not a despicable subject, you were up for it and wanted to explore, and I was asleep. You assumed this made a wonderful combination?"

"It did; you were quite relaxed already, and with only a little work, quite ready for more. I made sure to use lots of lube, and with me kissing your back, you were moaning quite loudly. Frankly, I'm surprised that you didn't wake _yourself_ up. A testament to your dedication to somnus, I suppose. I slipped myself in slowly and was doing just fine til you fidgeted and brought about some new sensations that I must admit, I had trouble holding back from. You woke after about five minutes of me slamming into you for all I was worth."

"Five minutes?"

"Why? Is that bad?"

"Sherlock, it's all bad, in that you shouldn't have done it, but five minutes of nonstop, extended exertion is more than most porn stars would be capable of without release."

"I was getting there, but then you rather rudely woke up."

"Rudely?"

"Well, you might have been quiet until I was done before you started this interrogation. As it is, I've lost a bit of my concentration, and probably quite a few minutes of effort."

"You're saying you still want to fuck me until completion?"

"Oh yes, quite definitely. I'm seldom in this state; I would appreciate being able to enjoy it."

"And you expect me to, firstly, say yes, and secondly, remain here silently while you bugger the daylights out of me?"

"Oh no, certainly not. You can make all the noise you want, it won't bother me in the slightest. And, one thing I hadn't thought of, now that you're awake, I don't have to worry about the biting waking you."

"Biting?" Asked John incredulously, whereupon Sherlock demonstrated, garnering both a shiver and an unbridled moan from the man beneath him.

John's brain had bits of information floating around through it, attempting to join up in some coherent thought, but they didn't quite manage it: madman, arsefuck, biting?, asleep dammit!, Sherlock?! am I gay?, who knows, oh what the hell. The last one of these he managed to articulate, to Sherlock's great joy, and the consulting detective, aka sleeping-flatmate arse-pirate, got back into the business of plundering under full-sail.

John grunted, groaned, even squeaked on occasion. Then sighed when lips touched his back, his ears and his neck, as he felt himself pushed into the mattress as Sherlock took him with concentrated intensity. Eventually, he even found himself panting. He refused to let himself feel embarrased as after all, it was Sherlock who started all this madness.

John even shivered at certain angles of penetration or places Sherlock ran his hands over him. As his brain finally climbed completely on board with the "to hell with it" business, he even found himself making requests for 'a little to the right' or 'oh god, do that again'. He was huffing and panting hard with Sherlock as they both neared their critical points. When Sherlock curled, pressing his forehead in between John's shoulders and shuddering repeatedly, John came not only from the stimulation but also, he thought, from the sheer strangeness of the evening.

Neither could deny it had been good though. John knew he would have to have the discussion of _"Why You Do Not Shag Sleeping People: Desirable, Handy or Not"_, later on that day, but for now he contented himself with merely gasping out, "Sherlock, out of all the possibilities of us getting together, however remote, this was never even distantly a consideration."

Sherlock mumbled offhandedly that it had always been a possibility, unlikely, but a possibility. Leave it to Sherlock and his mind palace to possibly forsee the events of tonight connecting and unwinding in the way they just had.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"Next time,_ I'm _the pirate."

"Okay, John."

And they curled up, sticky and messy, and definitely changed by the night, yet somehow not changed at all, as sleep finally fell on Baker Street.


End file.
